


kiss the color of a constellation

by orphan_account



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Idiots in Love, Music, Mutual Pining, On Hiatus, Skateboarding, Slow Burn, musician!adora, skater!catra
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 08:35:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24966826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Adora is a struggling musician and Catra is the skater who breaks into her hotel. Somehow, they work it out.*ON HIATUS*
Relationships: Adora/Catra (She-Ra), Bow/Glimmer (She-Ra), Mermista/Sea Hawk (She-Ra), Perfuma/Scorpia (She-Ra)
Comments: 34
Kudos: 140





	1. in my heart there's that hotel suite

**Author's Note:**

> title is taken from the arctic monkeys song arabella. you will see several references to this song and band throughout the story, as i love them. chapter titles are also arctic monkeys.

Seahawk has set fire to the studio. 

Yet again. 

Adora shoves her way past the fire department and a preening Seahawk, who seems to think mass damage is a form of accomplishment, to survey the damage. Not much is ruined, spare a music stand or two, but this whole fire thing is starting to get bothersome.

“This is the third hotel,” she says to Seahawk. She tries to not inhale and fails miserably, mouth filling with ash. “Do you really want to get kicked out _again_?”

“It was for _adventure_ ,” says Seahawk, one hand in the air. It’s his response to practically everything; Adora sighs, puts her face in her palms. She has an album to write. She can’t deal with this now.

“You. We’re going to talk later. But for now--” Adora surveys the wreckage of the hotel studio where she was supposed to be spending the next couple of days. “How can we help?”

  
The question is voiced at the firemen, who have succeeded in putting out the flames. She gets no response other than a clipped, “go back to your room,” but it’s at least something; she exhales, bids an apology to the concierge, and drags Seahawk away by the back of his jacket. Her hands are already tensed from being clenched all day, and she has to force herself to stop, rub out the tension that leaves them trembling. Another distraction is the last thing she needs.

“Album not going well?” says Seahawk, watching as she flexes her fingers. “You know, you don’t have to do the whole thing by yourself.”

“But what if I do?” 

Adora throws up her hands, and then winces; they’re still sore, even from simple moments. “Mermista and Perfuma are busy, and Glimmer and Bow . . . well, I don’t know what their deal is, but they hate writing songs! I have to help them!”

“By taking on all the work for yourself?” Seahawk shakes his head. The elevators have stopped because of the fire alarm, so they take the stairs instead. Adora’s muscles begin to burn, and her lungs fight for air--she may be good at running on flat ground, but racing through the stairwell is another matter. “Take . . . it . . . from . . . someone . . . who . . . writes . . . millions . . . of albums--”

“You wrote three shanties called _Adventure._ ” Adora’s out of breath, but not as much as Seahawk is--she can actually speak. “That hardly counts.”

“You . . . wish . . . you . . . could . . . be as . . . cool . . as me.”

“Sure, Seahawk. In your dreams.”

He collapses in a heap when they reach the twelve floor, and Adora waits patiently, as she massages a spasm from her hamstring. He’s right, as rare as that is, that she’s been putting too much into the album. There’s a deadline, and she’s barely started the second song. It would be much easier with her other bandmates, but Adora doesn’t want to trouble them. She can do this herself. 

“Listen, Adora.” Seahawk can hardly get the words out, he's too busy gasping for breath. Adora rubs his shoulder and pushes open the door. 

“It’s okay, take your time. I’ll be in my room. Visit me if, y’know, you ever get off the ground.”

“I’m only doing this to boost your confidence!” he shouts from behind her. She stifles a laugh. 

Her room is only a few doors down from the stairwell exit, so she reaches into her pocket and fumbles for the key. It’s gold, just like everything else in the hotel, and is inscripted with the words, She-Ra; letters that burn into Adora’s retinas and leave her feeling like she doesn’t fit in her own skin. She goes by that stage name to retain some normalcy, but lately it feels like she doesn't exist outside of She-Ra. That all anyone cares about is the musician and not the person underneath. She's probably being melodramatic, but still. It would be nice to be acknowledged as just Adora for once.

She sighs and pushes open the door. Her room is a mess. Papers lie everywhere, scattered thoughts collecting dust on her shelves. Her guitar sits on her bed and clothes litter the floor. Adora doesn’t have the energy to clean it up, just shakes through the room and collapses against the wall, pressing her face into her hands. It’s cold against her back, which just makes every anxiety she’s trying to shake off sharper. She has to breathe through the feeling until it passes, and even then she’s left with a mess of emotion she’s sick at looking at, sick of holding.

“Fuck,” she says, and stares at the window. It’s open--wait. When did that happen?

Adora tenses and turns.

There’s a girl in her room.

***

Catra doesn’t exactly mean to break into the building. It’s not like it's entirely an accident either, just a spur of the moment decision. She throws herself over the fence, a moment of indecision at leaving her skateboard behind, and scales the fire escape. Police cars race by, which makes her climb faster, hands sticky with sweat and adrenaline. She throws herself at the first rooftop she can find, almost missing it, and darts across.

It’s a flat expanse of space. She’s still out in the open. There’s a rooftop below her that she could jump to, if she’s willing to brave the risk. At first she’s hesitant, but the police cars have begun to circle back, and the drop is only fifteen feet, so she takes a deep breath and shakes out her hands.

She needs to measure this jump perfectly, or else she’ll overshoot the tiny ledge below and plummet to her death. Anything, maybe even that, would be better than getting caught and sent back to another foster home, though; Catra’s sick of breaking out of there, and she’s starting to like the town of Bright Moon. 

Which is why, right before she can talk herself down, she takes a breath and launches herself off the ledge.

For a moment, she’s suspended in the air. The ledge grows larger beneath her, expanding and darkening, and she plummets towards it. Catra’s good with heights, though, so she grits her teeth through the adrenaline and prepares for the impact. Three feet remaining.

She lands in a roll. 

For a moment she’s paralyzed as the brick scrapes her shoulder through her jacket and then she teeters at the edge of the rooftop. She doesn’t even have to windmill her hands, just kneels down and breathes hard through the adrenaline. There are cuts on her hands, but her wrists are spared from the guards she wears. She’s lucky she’s prepared from skateboarding--it took her millions tries to learn how to fall right.

The thought of skateboarding makes her tense. She lost her board running from the police, and it’ll be a pain to replace. But she doesn’t let herself dwell on it, and walks to one side of the rooftop instead. There’s a pipe she can climb down, but there are twenty meters between her and the nearest balcony. Her knees start to knock and she can feel sweat dripping down her face, but she’s still exposed out here. The police can’t send her to another foster home again.

Carefully, Catra slides her legs off the roof and around the pipe, squeezing her knees to the metal. Her fingertips dig into the brick roof as she struggles to support herself. When she finally puts her hands on it, her hands slip, and an image of her body lying on the pavement below, limbs twisted at odd angles flashes behind her eyes. She grabs the pipe and slides herself down, hand over hand.

The action of it is familiar. She got out of a foster home like this. She doesn’t remember which one, exactly--they all start to look the same after a while, but the rest of the climb is relatively easy, and she lowers herself onto a balcony. It’s simple, with two chairs and a guitar stand. The window is unlocked. 

“Rich people,” says Catra disdainfully. She lets herself in. 

The lights are off, which means she can probably wait here for a few minutes. The room itself is a hellzone, covered in papers and notebooks, like someone had a fit. Catra picks through it with interest. Most of the sheets are covered in lyrics, but she spots a few documents and lists. They’re addressed to an Adora, which makes her smirk, but then the door swings open.

A girl, tall and blonde, stumbles through. Catra’s first thought is that she looks awful, clothes dusted in soot, and then she actually catches a glimpse of the girl’s face. She has a sharp nose and even sharper eyes, blue like kool-aid, and her hair curls around her shoulders. This must be the Adora from the documents; her name fits her, despite it’s ridiculousness. Catra stares at her, trying to remember how to breathe.

Adora doesn’t notice her at first. She just slumps against the wall and breathes hard, before lifting her head up towards the window. Catra knows she should hide, but her body betrays her; she tries to run and stays rooted to the spot.

Goddamnit. Adora’s eyes lift up, and then slowly, slowly, she turns to Catra. Her irises are even bluer than they were at first, and looking at her makes Catra’s stomach swoop with something she tells herself isn’t attraction. Adora’s mouth opens, to scream maybe, so Catra does the only thing she can think to do.

“Hey, Adora.”


	2. lighting the fuse might result in a bang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which adora is a useless lesbian and has no tact

“How do you know my name?”

The girl shrugs. She’s pretty, with black hair in a messy ponytail, and skater’s clothes. Her features are angular; pointed chin, straight nose, and high cheekbones dusted with freckles. She’s Latina, Adora thinks, though she may be wrong. 

“It’s kinda hard not to. It’s all over your room.”

“You . . .” Adora swallows, speechless, then squares her shoulders and clears her throat. It’s strangely raw, and the words come out strangled, like she didn’t form them right. “What gives you the right to rummage through my stuff?”

“Relax. Jeez! It was just right there.” 

Skater girl kicks her foot at one of the papers. She’s wearing red converse, which Adora stares at so she doesn’t have to meet her eyes. They’re different colors, one blue and one amber-brown, and looking at them gives Adora a strange feeling, like she’s shifted in her skin. “Would it hurt you to clean up every once in a while?”

“You’re the one breaking into my room! How did you even get in?”

“Window,” says the girl, and glances at the door. “Can you please keep your voice down? I don’t want you to cause a scene.”

“A scene?” 

Adora looks at her more carefully, cheeks flushed from exertion, and then to the window, kicked open. “Well, I’m guessing you're not a fan, then. So why are you here?”

“Fan?” the girl repeats. She looks incredulous, which Adora doesn’t know whether she should feel defensive over. “For what, your hair poof? No. I have no idea who you are.”

“Oh. Good.”

“Good?” The girl chuckles and takes a step forward. Adora has just taken a breath, relieved for her anonymity, but the air goes out of her chest at the increased proximity, how the girl’s chin lifts up and to the left. “Got a secret?”

“You’re the one running and breaking into my room,” Adora protests. “I doubt I’m the only one with a secret.”

She expects the girl to tense, or move away, but she only laughs and steps in closer. There’s four feet of space between them, something Adora is hyper aware of, even as her attention goes to the freckles on Skater-girl’s cheeks. “Yeah, okay, you got me. So you’re not going to call the police?”

“Maybe I like the company.”

“Thanks.”

“I said  _ maybe, _ ” Adora snarks. The girl laughs again. “Still doesn’t explain why you’re running.” 

The girl pauses for a moment. Adora can see her thinking, evident in the purse of her lips and the distance in her eyes. “Depends on whether you’re going to call the police or not.”

“Depends on whether you’ve done something really bad, or not.”

Skater-girl laughs again. It’s breathy and surprised, an intoxicating sound. “Fine. I broke out of a foster home.”

“Oh,” says Adora. “Oh.”

“If you apologize, I’ll fling myself out the window.”

“Don’t worry, I wasn’t going to. I was in a few of them myself.” It feels strange to admit. She had almost forgotten about that part of herself; a photograph she’s folded and tucked away. “They suck. Don’t worry, I’ll stay quiet.”

“You were adopted, I’m guessing.”

“Well, yeah.” Adora winces; it seems insensitive to talk about it with someone who hasn’t escaped the system. “So, do you have a name?”

“Of course I do,” says the girl. Her eyes gleam. She seems to be waiting for something; Adora huffs, equal parts exasperated and amused, and steps forwards. Up close, the girl’s eyes are even more startling. 

“What are you, five?”

“Seventeen, actually. I’m Catra.”

“Catra,” Adora repeats. The name fits her; sharp and scrapy all at once. She extends a hand. “Nice to meet you, Catra.”

“Back at you,  _ Adora _ .” There’s something about the way that Catra says her name that makes her chest feel hot and tense. The other girl’s hand is covered in scars and scrapes, like she got in a fight, but her fingers are as warm as her voice, and the contact makes Adora’s feel like she’s burning from the inside out. She doesn’t drop Catra's hand, even when the other girl laughs, like she’s done something strange, and adds, “that is your name, right?” It takes Adora a moment to process the question, and then, embarrassed, she pulls her hand away. 

The motion is too fast and too sudden; Catra stumbles forward, into her space, and Adora’s body is burning up. She doesn’t know why she’s so awkward; she’s seen herself in action, and she can be downright charming. It’s a requirement--one doesn’t become a famous pop star without some semblance of social grace. But something about Catra seems to shut down the normal interaction part of her mind, and Adora’s left stumbling, clumsy and unsure like she doesn’t know her own body. Maybe it’s because Catra is so unlike anyone she’s ever met. She’s snarky and unabashed and electrifying, and Adora stares down at her hands to avoid Catra’s eyes.

“Yeah,” she says. Her voice is a pitch too loud. “You got it.”

“No last name?”

“Never knew it,” Adora admits. “Besides, everyone just knows me as She-Ra, so--”

She cuts herself off, face burning. The last thing she wants is for Catra to realize who she is and start acting differently, though thankfully, the other girl doesn’t seem to notice. 

“Adora,” she says, eyebrow quirked. “What’s with all the guitars?”

“Guitars?” Adora repeats. Then she notices the dozens of instruments across her room. “Oh. I’m a musician.” She already slipped up with She-Ra, but she figures this much can’t hurt; Catra doesn’t even seem to put two and two together, just nods and then leans against the bed. She’s wearing red ripped jeans and a grey crop top, and when she stretches, a sliver of her tanned stomach shows. Adora flushes and looks away.

“Cool. What do you write?”

“Just . . . I don’t know, nothing special. What about you? You’re a skater. What's that like?”

“Is it that obvious?” Catra seems to catch sight of the guards on her hands a moment later, and then laughs and shakes her head. “Okay, fair point. I skate. Bright Moon’s got good parks--skate parks,” she clarifies, at Adora’s raised eyebrow, “so it’s pretty nice, all and all. Even if the cops are everywhere.”

“Maybe you should take me sometime.”

Adora doesn’t even realize that she’s said it until it leaves her mouth; she claps her hands up, as if she can force the words back in.

“No, ah! You don’t have to. Sorry that I made it--”

“No!” Catra leaps off the bed. “It’s just.  _ Mierda.  _ I lost my skateboard and it’s gonna be a pain to get it back. I'll take you if you're interested.”

Adora remembers how to breathe properly, and some of the panic fades from her chest. “Oh."

"Yeah."

"Want me to get it back for you?”

“You don’t have to,” says Catra, but Adora’s already halfway to the door.

“No, let me help. Where did you leave it?”

“Adora, I said  _ don’t _ . God, you’re so dumb.” Catra comes to stand by her side, and blocks the door, sectioning it off with her body. “You’re really just going to let a stranger, who broke into your room, stay all by herself with your belongings?”

“Yeah. So?”

Catra says something in Spanish that may be ‘grant me patience’, but Adora’s spanish is rusty, despite her years of practice. “Look. I could steal something. I could be dangerous. Are you always this dumb?”

“Usually, yeah.” Adora shrugs, blinks. The protective tone in Catra’s voice makes her chest feel warm, even if the other girl is glaring at her like she’s done something wrong. “I trust you. You won’t steal.”

“You don’t even  _ know  _ me.”

“Yeah, well. I feel like I do.” 

Catra’s expression does something strange at the words, a moment of recognition or surprise, where she stares at Adora like she remembers her. Then she blinks, shaking her head like she’s trying to clear it, and tilts her chin up. The action is familiar, a memory collecting dust in the back of Adora’s mind. “Do you have any self preservation, like, at all?”

“Not really, no,” says Adora. She shrugs. “I try not to make it a habit.”

“ _ Dios concédeme paciencia _ .”

“Hey. That’s coming from the girl who broke into my hotel room and is running from the police.” She crooks a finger, and Catra laughs, fond and expasterated, before Adora adds, “I’d say we’re about even.” Her laughter turns into a shrug, thoughtful, and Adora jabs her finger into Catra’s chest. For a moment, they don’t speak, both staring at the point of contact, and then Catra laughs again, takes a step back, makes her way toward the window. Adora feels like she’s full of electrical sparks.

“Okay, I guess you have a point.” 

“Guess?” 

“Fine, fine, you’re right.” Catra leans out of the window. There’s a scar on the back of her neck, which Adora stares at, and something scratches at the back of her skull. “Hey, the police are gone! I guess I should get going.”

“Maybe.”

“ _ Maybe _ ?”

“Yeah, well--” Adora shrugs, feeling awkward. “--you don’t have to go through the window.”  _ You don’t have to go through at all _ , is what she really wants to say, but she doesn’t have the courage to. At least this way, she can spend more time with Catra. “I doubt running around the rooftops is safe.”

“Nah,” says the other girl, “but it’s more fun. Besides--” She seems to catch Adora’s crestfallen expression, and her tone changes. “--I have some stuff to do, but give me your number. That way we can keep in touch.”

Adora only hesitates briefly. She’s not supposed to give her number out for fear it’ll get leaked, but her desire to keep in contact wins in the end, so she fumbles her phone out and opens up the contacts app. It’s still covered in soot from the fire that Seahawk set, and that reminds her of how horrible she must look, sweaty and ashen. Facing burning, she types in the number that Catra repeats, and saves it on her phone.

“Thanks.” 

“No problem.” Catra’s already halfway out the window; she stops to smile at her. “Text me, Adora. Let’s keep in touch.”

And then she’s gone, and the door bursts open.

“Adora,” says a horrified Glimmer, “someone just went out your window!” She seems to collect herself a moment later, and then adds, "you know what? Tell me later. Mom wants us to meet up in the studio and she wants it now.”

***

Adora can hardly get a word out for the walk to the studio. Glimmer goes on and on about how her mother, who is also the band’s manager, won’t give her any responsibility. Adora nods and looks sympathetic in all the right places, but her mind is hardly on the conversation. She keeps thinking of Catra, and the number in her phone. Will Catra call her? Should she text first? The idea leaves her dizzy; she has to stop and breathe through it, though when she winds up thinking of Catra again, it occurs to her that this is probably not the best strategy. Glimmer has stopped talking as well, which Adora realizes belatedly when her friend grabs her shoulders and narrows her eyes.

“Adora?” Glimmer says. She sounds concerned; Adora cringes, forces herself to meet her eyes.

“Hey. Sorry. I’m fine.”

“Okay, good.” They resume walking. “Mom said we have an important guest. All the other princesses are here.”

“And Bow?” Adora guesses yes when Glimmer flushes and raises a hand to the back of her neck. “Okay, then. Guess it’s a really big deal.”

“It is. But Mom won’t give me any of the details, so--” Glimmer growls, then closes her eyes, exhales. “You know what? It’s no big deal. We’ll learn it with the other princesses.”

“Why are we even called the Princess Alliance anyways? Literally any band name, and we chose that one. Bow isn’t even a girl.”

“He’d make a great princess, though,” says Glimmer, and Adora giggles. Glimmer looks at her, pleased.

They push open the door. The studio still smells faintly of ash, but apart from scorch marks on the wood, it looks relatively unscathed. The rest of their bandmates sit in various places across the room, Mermista on the piano, Perfuma off to the side. Bow sits on the floor, though he leaps up when he sees Glimmer; Adora snickers quietly to herself and Glimmer flushes bright red. 

“Not a word,” hisses Glimmer.

Adora, smug, says, “I didn’t say anything,” though she quiets when Angella, Glimmer’s mother, steps forward. She’s wearing a suit and is holding a phone to her ear. Moments later, she nods and hangs up.

“Girls,” she says. “I--”

“What about Bow?”

“Girls and Bow,” says Angella, through gritted teeth, and turns to Mermista, who’s on her phone again. “Please try not to interrupt. Due to certain circumstances--”

“And Seahawk,” Mermista adds.

“Yes,  _ Seahawk _ , the studio is no longer in use. The deadline for the new album will not be suspended, however, despite the damage. I expect each and every one of you to--”

“Excuse me,” Bow says, holding up a hand. “But Adora volunteered to write all the songs?”

Angella is silent. Adora tries not to shift too much, though judging from the tic under their producer’s eye, she’s not succeeding. 

“That is a matter for later,” Angella says finally, and then turns away. She begins to talk about deadlines and such, and Adora mirrors Mermista, pulling out her phone. Her wallpaper is a picture of her, Bow, and Glimmer, though when she unlocks it, it changes to a picture of the singer Mara.

Mara, first name only, is Adora’s idol and inspiration. She’s been listening to her music ever since she was a child, determined to follow in her footsteps and become a musician as well. It’s a lot more difficult then it seemed on paper, but eventually, she got an album out, made a name for herself, even while in the care of the foster homes. She was adopted months later, a woman who her friends like to call Shadow Weaver _. _ The rest is a blur.

Adora rubs the screen of her phone unconsciously, staring into Mara’s face. She’s been hoping that ever since becoming famous, she’d have a chance to meet her idol, but of course, no such luck. Mara, and her producer who goes by the name of Light Hope, are extremely secretive, never doing collaborations, releasing albums without warning every few years. Still, it’s a dream Adora hasn’t given up on, even as the reality seems further away every day.

“Now this is important, so are you all listening? Adora, I’m looking at you.”

“Yes,” says Adora, and goes to open her messages app. Angella’s announcement can’t be that important anyways. She has a few missed texts, but not several; it’s difficult to make friends when hiding your identity or moving from place to place. Adora’s grateful for the ones she has, though; Bow and Glimmer, her bandmates, Spinderella and Entrapta and Netossa, the rest of the crew. And maybe Catra, if the next few days go right. She can barely contain a pleased sigh.

“Adora?” Bow is looking at her; she catches his elbow, jerks up. “Did you hear?”

“No. What happened?”

“We got a new record deal!” 

He throws his arms around her, laughing. Adora is so startled that she almost drops her phone.

“What? With who?”

“Did you really not hear?” He pokes her shoulder. His face is jubilant. “It’s Mara’s producer, Light Hope. She’s coming to hear our album in a few weeks.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbeta-ed as always, so if you see any mistakes, please let me know. guess who was supposed to be writing a super angsty fic and got distracted by these two idiots instead? 
> 
> quick note: though the first chapter had both characters perspectives, from now on, it will be alternating. which means we will get catra's pov later. also, frosta will not make an appearance in this fic, as she is too young to actually be in the band. thanks so much for reading!


	3. how (s)he longs for you to long for h(er) once more

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which catra angsts and texts and endures bad guitar puns for the sake of love

Catra can’t find her skateboard. She spends half an hour looking for it, but in her haste to escape the police, she loses awareness of where it could be, which is not that big of a deal, exactly, though the thought of replacing it makes her groan. 

On top of that, she has to take a cab back too. Catra has never liked cars in the first place, but taxis are particularly harrowing; she stays tensed the whole ride, only moving when she has to pay the driver and exit the vehicle. He’s left her on the edge of the Fright Zone--a maze of streets and abandoned buildings that is inhabited by a group called the Horde. Catra doesn’t know what they classify as, exactly, just that the Horde lives in the center of the Fright Zone and takes people in when they have no where else to go. 

It’s not her best option, but the living quarters are nice, and as long as she doesn’t interfere with Hordak and his experiments, she gets along without much trouble. So it's where she's heading now.

Catra continues walking. The buildings here are skeletons, broken windows and crumbling ribcages of scaffolding and stone. They get cleaner and more modern the closer she gets to the Fright Zone’s center, but here, on the outskirts, it's in ruins. Renovation would be nice, but no one comes near the sector except the Horde.

“And rightly so,” Catra says aloud. Her voice echos; walking through the Fright Zone comes with the threat of power lines collapsing or the ground crumbling through. The streets are weakest in the middle though, so she moves towards the sidewalk. The view is awful there, yielding only pieces of old furniture, and bits of trash through the window. 

When the sector’s residents left, they must not have left in a hurry, because all of the spaces are clean. Catra supposes there must have been some items left over, but it’s probably been looted by the Horde. 

Within a few minutes, she reaches the center of the Fright Zone. Her friend Lonnie sits outside the single clean building with her arms over her chest. She must be on guard duty, a task assigned to Catra before she snuck out. 

“Catra,” Lonnie bites out, moving forward. “Where you been?”

Her annoyance is obvious; Catra folds her arms, drawing herself up straighter, because even though she wants to, she can’t tell Lonnie the truth. A cocky, “places,” is what she offers instead, because it’s too suffocating in the Fright Zone already. She can’t bear the weight of her friend’s pity as well.

“Catra . . .” Lonnie trails off, pinches her nose. “You--”

“I’ll do guard duty another time. Just tell Hordak.”

“No. Not what I meant.” 

She’s staring at Catra’s shoes now, probably registering the lack of the skateboard beneath them; moments later she blinks, looks up. “Hey, where’s your board?”

“Gone,” snaps Catra, still pissed over the loss. “Are we done here?”

Lonnie scowls, but moves aside. “I’ll take guard duty next time, seriously,” Catra says, moving past her. It’s a far cry from the ‘sorry’ that tastes bitter on her tongue, but Lonnie’s face softens anyways, and she reaches out, curls one hand around Catra’s shoulder.

“We’re all running from things, Catra. You don’t need to pretend you’re the only one.”

Catra goes stiff and pries Lonnie’s fingers away. “You don’t know anything,” she says. She pushes her way inside.

The inside of the building is clean and furnished, with green hallways and sliding doors. Catra shakes her way through the dormitories and then collapses onto her bed. It’s a small, grey cot covered in blankets, but it’s surprisingly comfortable, and she relaxes against it, breathes deep. She’s not running anymore. She doesn’t have to be afraid. The tension drains from her shoulders, and she remembers how to inhale, shaking hands stuttering to a stop. Her mouth still tastes bitter, but she’s used to it. There are only so many times you can be told you’re wrong before your own truth starts to collapse before your eyes.

The last few people exit the dorm. Catra is alone, finally, so she pulls out her phone. 

No texts. She’s not exactly surprised. Adora seems like she’d be a busy person, but Catra is still optimistic that she’ll reach out. And if not--she has to laugh at this--she can always break into Adora’s hotel room again.

“What I’ll do to get a girl,” she says. Her body is still buzzing from their encounter, a euphoric high, one that reminds Catra of the first time she learned to skate. It was all scraped knees and rushed adrenaline and wind in her hair, but the feeling of falling, the acute awareness of the blood in her veins--all of that is reminiscent of her meeting of Adora. She knows it’s ridiculous, but she feels like they know each other. Even if the Adora she knew once is long gone. 

Catra shakes the memory out of her head. It belongs to a child, unreliable, and only has scraps to prove it. A foster home in New Mexico. Stiff dry air. A girl with a gap between her teeth who said ‘you and me’. She shouldn’t indulge in fantasies. There is no way this is her Adora.

She closes her phone and stands up.

***

Scorpia is easy to find. She sits outside, singing, one hand in the air, though she stops when she sees Catra.

“Kitty!” Catra is well versed in Scorpia’s antics, and manages to avoid being swept into an embrace.

“Hey. Scorpia. What’s up?”

“‘What’s up?’ Aw, you care about me! I told you we were best friends.”

Catra resists the urge to laugh. Scorpia is convinced that they’re soulmates, even if they’ve only known each other for the few months Catra has been in the Horde. 

“I don’t do emotions,” says Catra, puffing her chest up. They look at each other for a moment before bursting out into giggles. It’s nice to have a friend who cares about her, even if Catra will never admit it. The foster homes have stripped the hope of ever meaning anything from her, years of abandonment and being second best, but at the Horde, Catra finally feels like she can somehow belong. It is a place for orphans and strays, after all. She fits right in.

“Keep telling yourself that,” says Scorpia.

“Ha, you wish.” She pauses and looks at the skateboard lying at Scorpia’s feet. “Hey, can I borrow that for a few days?”

“My board?” Scorpia says. Her confusion is evident. “Don’t you have your own?”

“Lost it. Long story.”

“But is it really a long story?” Scorpia prods. She quirks an eyebrow, and Catra sighs, settles against the bench. 

  
“The police caught up to me.”

“Oh no. Are you--”

“I’m fine,” Catra snaps. She dislikes being pity intensely, the sort of patronising concern that makes her feel like she’s shifting in her skin. There’s no way Scorpia could possibly know this, though, so she closes her eyes and breathes through her anger, mouth sour and tasing of guilt. “Sorry. That was uncalled for. I’m okay. I managed to escape.”

“But?”

“But I lost my board and broke into some hot girl’s hotel room. There’s really not that much left to say.”

“Hot girl,” repeats Scorpia. She looks upset.

“Yes,” says Catra. “But--that’s not the point!”

She explains the rest, flushing intensely. Her conversation, the walk back, her loss of the skateboard. Scorpia’s frown grows at the mention of her giving her number, but Catra can hardly concentrate on her. The face of Adora burns inside her mind, quirked eyebrows and curling hair and a laugh that made her chin tilt up. She finishes after a few moments and then crosses her arms.

“So,” she says. Her voice is rough. “That’s all.”

Scorpia is silent, staring at Catra with an expression she can’t place. Finally, she says, “but . . don’t you think that’s a little weird?”

Out of all the responses Catra was expecting, this is not it. 

“Weird how?” she repeats.

“Like, how do you know this girl won’t call the cops on you? What if she puts you in danger?”

“Scorpia,” Catra says gently. “If she was going to, don’t you think she would have while I was there?”

“Yeah, but . . .” Her friend sighs, drags a hand across her forehead; moments later she drops it and then offers a smile. “I’m just looking out for you. It’s my job.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

They sit outside the Fright Zone and talk for several more minutes. Catra is half paying attention, half cataloguing the view around her, still surprised that she’s come to appreciate the Fright Zone despite all it’s in need of repairs. The foster homes she’s stayed in for all of her life blur together; she’s never known home, not until the Horde, anyways. She’s let her guard down, and pieces of the Fright Zone live in of her now, inside the mausoleum of a million different places that is her chest.

There are some things you can’t stop, she supposes. Even when you’re waiting for them, they come around and surprise you. When you’re not watching, they’ll curl up and make themselves at home inside your mind.

Catra slides her phone into her back pocket and banishes all thoughts of Adora from her mind.

  
“Hey, Scorpia,” she says. “What do you say about letting me use your board?”

She skates for the rest of the day, and finally, when the sun sets, pulls out her phone again. There’s a moment of hesitation where she’s too afraid to turn it on, terrified of the lack of what she’ll find. Scorpia does it for her, though, leaning over and pressing the home button.

“Just look already,” she says, and together, they peer at the screen.

There’s one new message from an unknown number. It says, ‘Hi Catra! This is Adora, just in case you were wondering,’ and looking at it gives Catra a feeling of warmth, like she’s standing straight in the sun.

“Of course she uses proper grammar.” 

Catra more laughs it than says it, throwing her hands up and sinking into her bed. She feels giddy, almost; rolls back and forth along the sheets. “What a dork. Just. Wow.”

No one says ‘this is coming from you’, but Catra knows they’re all thinking it. She’s too busy beaming at the device in her hands, though, to actually care.

**Catra:** hey adora

 **Adora:** Oh, hi! I was wondering when you would get this.

 **Catra:** u were thinking abt me?

 **Adora:** mAyBe

 **Catra:** i’ll get u for that

 **Adora:** What are you going to do, climb through my hotel window again?

 **Catra:** stop exposing me, that’s not very nice.

 **Adora:** Says the girl who broke into my bedroom

 **Catra:** ur just going to hold this over me forever, aren’t u

 **Adora** : Yeah, basically.

 **Catra** : i stand by what i said:

 **Catra** : rude.

 **Adora** : I can make it up to you.

 **Catra** : yeah?

Her hands stutter as she types it out. What does Adora mean by this?

**Adora** : I found your skateboard. We can meet up at the Bright Moon Dinner.

 **Catra** : wow thanks

 **Catra** : meet up tomorrow?

 **Adora** : Sure, that works.

 **Catra** : thanks again

 **Adora** : Don’t mention it.

 **Catra** : okay lol. see u then

Three dots. And then:

**Adora** : Do you have to go right now?  
 ****

 **Catra** : no

 **Adora** : Okay phew

 **Adora** : My friend set fire to our studio, so there’s nothing to do

 **Catra** : ur in a luxury hotel and there’s nothing to do? i find that hard to believe.

 **Adora** : We have to stay in our rooms. 

**Catra** : oof

 **Adora** : Yeah, and I’m bored of song-writing. There’s nothing to do.

 **Catra** : y did someone set fire to the studio again?

 **Adora** : Believe me, I want to know that too. I’ve tried asking, but the only response I get is ‘adventure’. 

**Catra** : an arsonist. i like it.

 **Adora** : Not you too!

 **Catra:** believe me, i prefer breaking into hotels to lighting them on fire

 **Adora** : That’s a relief. I’m pretty sure that if there is another fire, we’ll all be locked up. Seahawk needs to chill.

 **Catra** : what kind of a name is seahawk

There’s no response. Catra shakes out her hands, waiting for a message, and then circles the room. When she gets back, there’s an unopened text; she grabs for the phone, eagerly, curling into it as she settles against the bed.

**Adora** : It’s my friend’s nickname. He’s the one who set the studio on fire.

 **Catra** : oh

The name Seahawk does sound familiar. She’s heard something about some musician who goes by that title, but he’s pretty famous, and Adora has mentioned her music career being minimal. Catra doubts she knows him, but something still nags at her.

**Adora** : You still there?

 **Catra** : yea sorry

 **Adora** : Don’t apologize. The mention of Seahawk was enough to make one of my friends leave the state for two weeks. This is minimal.

 **Catra** : wow. extreme.

 **Adora** : Exactly. And they’re dating.

 **Catra** : relationship goals

 **Adora** : Haha, I know right. 

Three dots.

**Adora** : Are you in one?

Catra shrieks, beaming, and then tugs the phone close to her chest. This is a good sign. This is a very good sign. It could also be that Adora is a friendly person, but Catra is opting that she is interested in her instead.

**Catra** : nah. u?   
**Adora** : In a relationship with my guitar.

 **Catra** : wow disturbing

 **Adora** : You’ve seen my guitars

 **Catra** : is this a bad innuendo?

 **Adora** : Shit

She can practically imagine the other girl blushing. Catra smiles and types out a response.

**Catra** : relax, im messing with u. What would that even be called?

 **Catra** : guitar sexual?

 **Adora** : You’re not even trying.

 **Catra** : oh yeah

 **Adora** : Fingering a minor

She doesn’t know anything about music, but she does understand this joke.

**Catra** : DAMN

 **Catra** : im impressed

 **Adora** : Why thank you

 **Catra** : hehe np

 **Adora** : Though I wonder why you’re harassing me about this when your relationship with your skateboard is so disturbing . . . 

**Catra** : no more so than the guitar

***

They text for the whole night. Catra only realizes it’s morning when she blinks exhaustion out of her eyes and sees that Adora has texted, ‘Holy shit it’s seven o’clock.’

Catra is too tired to even respond, but she turns on her side and beams at the ceiling.

Seven o’clock means a new day. A new day means seeing Adora.

“ _Toma_!” Catra says aloud, and then only realizes she’s speaking Spanish when the girl in the bunk next to her gives her a strange look. She flushes and turns on her side.

She’s seeing Adora today. Holy fucking shit. 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the late update. lets play guess the chapter title with arctic monkeys lyrics. im gonna try to update this on sundays and thursdays, btw. please leave a comment if u liked! : )


	4. coursing through the veins (oh how the feeling races)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which adora is thirsty in more ways than one

Adora can’t concentrate during rehearsals. Her voice keeps cracking and her fingers fumble against the guitar strings, discordant notes punctuating the otherwise perfect rendition of their song. It goes on until Angella finally has to signal for them to stop after a particularly awful misplay; the band breaks away from each other and their manager steps forward, concern in her voice obvious when she asks if they need a break.

“No,” is what Adora responds with immediately, despite how much her throat aches. She’s still exhausted from staying up all night texting, and each time she goes to play a chord, her mind goes straight to Catra and she can’t remember how it goes. “Listen, Angella. I can do this. I’m just having an off day.”

“You’re allowed to have off days,” Angella tells her gently. "There’s no harm in it.”

“Yeah, but what about during a concert? Or when I need to think of a song? I can’t afford to have an off day. I have to be perfect.” 

She’s breathing heavily. Both Bow and Glimmer have come to her side; Bow offers a smile and Glimmer drops a hand to her shoulder, curls her fingers and squeezes. She’s been friends with them for what feels like years, and their presence has an immediate effect. Adora relaxes almost instantly, biting out an exhale.

“One day doesn’t hurt,” Bow says. “It’s okay.”

“It’s--” It’s a lost cause, is what it is. She sighs and sets her guitar into the stand, and then moves away. “You know what? You’re right. I have somewhere to be.” 

“Somewhere to be?” repeats Glimmer. Adora grabs her wrist and pulls her towards the door, smiling apologetically at Bow and Peruma and Mermista. 

“Don’t worry,” she says. “I’ll tell you on the way there.”

***

“Adora,” says Glimmer slowly, face in her hands. “Did anyone tell you! Not to go on dates! Wth girls who _break into your hotel room?!?”_

(No one has actually told Adora this. It’s not a topic that comes up in conversation much--though here they are--and even if it did, she’s pretty sure she’d still go out with Catra. If this is even going out.) Adora shrugs, pressing her lips together, and then slowly shakes her head.

“It’s not a date.” They’re sitting in her room. Glimmer is on the bed and Adora is pacing around her closet, frantically looking for something to wear. She picks up a t-shirt, wrinkles her nose, and then tosses it to the side, before adding, “at least I don’t _think_ it is.”

“It’s not?”

“I don’t know. She didn’t clarify. Maybe she sees it as--”

  
“ _Adora,"_ Glimmer enunciates, each syllable it’s own individual groan. “Stop over-thinking this.” 

“Okay, yeah. Good idea.” She pauses and then frowns at the closet. Her mind is going at what feels like a million miles an hour; she shakes out her hands, trying to release some of the pent up energy. “But what if it is a date? Then what should I wear?”

“You know what this means?” says Glimmer excitedly. Adora tenses at her tone; only bad things can come of Glimmer’s ideas, like when they snuck up to the roof and tried to set off fireworks but ended up sending up a tree on flames and knocking Bow unconscious instead. “You. Need. A. Makeover.”

“No, no, _no._ I need to learn to skateboard, review our texts, think about the possible outcomes--”

“Mermista!” yells Glimmer, phone somehow on and at her ear. She holds it, muttering, and then, a moment later, the door swings open with a loud crash.

“How can we help?” says Perfuma. She, Mermista, and Bow stand in the threshold, Perfuma beaming, Mermista’s expression neutral, and Bow scratching at the back of his neck.

“Sorry,” he says to Adora. “I tried to stop them.”

“At least someone’s on my side.” She glares at Glimmer, who just shrugs, unconcerned, and then back at her friends. “Is there any chance you’ll let me suffer in peace?”

“Uh, no way,” says Mermista.

“We suffer together!” says Perfuma. She frowns. “Wait, that came out wrong.”

“Yeah, no kidding.”

“So,” says Mermista, as her friends begin to tear through her closet. “What’s she like?” There is a bit of a sing-song to the words; Adora always thinks of the inflection of her tone as a mountain slope: rising in the middle and flat at beginning and ends.

“Catra?”

“Catra,” echoes Perfuma, clutching a shirt to her chest. “What a pretty name.”

It’s not the only pretty thing about her, thinks Adora, and then flushes when she realizes she’s spoken out loud.

“That’s so sweet!” Both Perfuma and Bow are beaming at her. Mermista makes a retching sound and sticks two fingers in her throat.

“Um. Gross.”

“It’s romantic,” sighs Perfuma and Bow. They’re the ones who always cry during rom coms---not that Adora ever watches those. She prefers sports games and action movies. “Honestly, that’s so cute.”

“Cute?” repeats Glimmer. “Oh come on! She broke into Adora’s hotel room, for god’s sake.” 

“She _what_?”

Bow’s reaction is comical; his eyes seem to swell three sizes larger and his mouth drops to the floor. Perfuma is still making heart eyes, infatuated with the ideas of love and attraction and felon by trespassing--pretty much the same thing, if Adora thinks about it--but Mermista looks up, nodding.

“I like this girl.”

“It takes a crime for you to like her?” squawks Adora. She turns and crooks a finger at Glimmer, who is lounging on her bed like some sort of pink glittery cat. “Also! You don’t get to say that! What if my mom hears?”

  
  


Everyone goes silent for a moment. Then all hell breaks loose.

“Your mom?” screeches Glimmer, flapping both arms. Bow proceeds to jump back and knock her side table over; Perfuma is breathing heavily with her hands clasped together, as if passive aggressive meditation will make the problem go away. The only one who is reasonably calm is Mermista, who just gives a slightly louder groan and rakes her hand over her face. 

“First of all,” she says, drawing out the words. “I don’t get why you call her that. She’s not, like, motherly at all.”

“Even bears are more motherly!” gasps Bow, who is kneeling down and clutching his forehead.

“Bears are excellent mothers,” protests Perfuma.

“The Hulk, then,” says Glimmer, who is going through an Avengers phase. Adora takes a moment to marvel at the fact that this is her life right now. “And secondly. She’s here?!”

“She has a room in the hotel, but it’s a few floors down.” Adora moves to lock the door. She turns back to her friends--Mermista has gone back to rooting through the closet, Perfuma and Bow are arguing over the attributes of bears, and Glimmer is just gaping at her with eyes three times their size. 

“What the fuck?” says Adora and puts her head in her hands. “Look. She hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“Uh, yeah she has.” Mermista picks up a tshirt, frowns, and then tosses it to the side. It lands on Bow’s head, which he doesn’t seem to notice, and continues his heated discussion with Perfuma on bears. “She’s totally critical of your songs, super overprotective--”

“She’s not!” Adora’s foster mother may be a little strange, but Adora’s never really had a home before. Even if their relationship is complicated, Adora is grateful to her for taking her in. 

“I’m just saying, Shadow Weaver is--”

  
  


“Her name is not Shadow Weaver!” Adora throws up her hands. “And what kind of name is that anyways? She sounds like--”

“Some evil knitting lady of doom?” provides Glimmer.

“Yes,” says Adora vindictively, and points a finger. “I don't even wanna know how you guys came up with that.”

“Talent,” says Perfuma.

Mermista holds up a red letter jacket and then tosses it to Adora. “Put this on. And she’s like, totally creepy, so the name fits her super well.”

“God,” says Adora, giving up. Her friends wrangle her into black jeans, red converse, and a white tank top, which all match the color scheme of the jacket Mermista has chosen. She pulls her hair out from it’s usual ponytail and brushes it, before surrendering herself to Bow and Perfuma for makeup.

“The point is,” she says, as her face is attacked by brushes, “Mom--Shadow Weaver, whatever you want to call her--she wouldn’t let me meet up with Catra if she knew what happened. So stay quiet.”

“We can be quiet,” says Glimmer. 

Adora can almost hear the sounds of a record screeching to a stop. Everyone looks at Glimmer, and she flushes, offers an embarrassed smile.

“Fine. Maybe not quiet--”

“Definitely not quiet,” drawls Mermista.

“But we’ll just say you went for a walk.” Bow and Perfuma draw away from her, closing up the makeup palettes. It’s not much--Adora can’t stand wearing makeup--but when she glances in the mirror, her face looks enhanced. “Adora! You look great!”

“Really?” says Adora shyly. Bow gives her a thumbs up, Perfuma claps her hands, and even Mermista looks more genuine than usual. “I mean, that’s not what would matter, but--”

“It doesn’t hurt.” Perfuma smiles. “Now, what time are you meeting up at?”

“Twelve. I should get going.”

***

There is one good thing about makeup, Adora can admit. No one realizes she’s She-Ra.

It’s not even like she wears a ton of it now. Up on stage, however, is a different story--all special effects and cosmetics and colored contacts and wigs. But she’s hardly recognizable. Adora is on an incredibly crowded street--one with people wearing Princess Alliance t-shirts and She-Ra merch--and no one even spares her a glance. 

Still, it does little to ease the twist in her stomach. There is always the possibility that some dedicated fan will make the connection, or that the paparazzi might arrive. Her hands are shaking, and she rubs out the tension before abandoning it all together; dropping the skateboard and standing on it instead. She’s never ridden one, but she’s good at sports, she _knows_ sports, and after a few moments, she’s speeding down the sidewalk, wind whipping through her hair and body thrumming with vibrations. She’s relaxed almost instantly, and before she knows it, she’s standing in front of It’s Tops Coffee Shop, a retro diner that she, Glimmer, and Bow frequent when they have the time.

She steps off the skateboard and starts towards the door, but is interrupted by a dry, slow clapping. “Who knew?” says Catra’s voice, and Adora turns to see Catra behind her, eyebrow quirked and arms crossed. She’s beaming though, despite her smug posture, and Adora laughs, leaning into her space without realizing it, and offers up a smile of her own.

“Guess you’re not the only one who can skate,” she says. 

“Yeah, you sure you’ve never been on one of these before?”

“Not once in my life,” says Adora, and for some reason, that makes Catra’s breath hitch--not much, but enough so that Adora can hear it, barely audible over the rush of traffic. “I guess you’ll be wanting it back.”

  
“Yeah, sure.” Catra suddenly looks shy; Adora realizes that she’s smirking, and schools her features into a neutral expression. “You can borrow it if you want.”

“Thanks.” She kicks the skateboard over. Neither of them move, just stare at the ground. Adora shuffles her converse, and finally jerks a thumb towards the door.

“Wanna check this place out?”

“Sure,” says Catra. She smiles and moves to hold open the door for Adora. Adora is charmed. “You been here before?”

“Yeah. It’s one of my favorite places.” She tips her head back and inhales the scent of coffee and maple syrup. This place is a safe haven for her--a place to go to when fame gets too stressful and she needs an escape.

When Adora opens her eyes, Catra is looking at her with a strange expression. She looks away too fast, one hand pressing at the back of her neck, and Adora smirks.

“What?” she smugly.

  
“Nothing,” screeches Catra. Adora jabs her with her elbow, and Catra snatches Adora’s baseball cap. She places it on her own head. Her hair is down today, black and silky, and when she quirks an eyebrow at Adora, something in Adora’s chest flip-flops. 

“Victory,” Catra declares. 

Adora moves to grab for it back, but Catra grabs her wrist, and then they’re pulled flush together, laughing hard. Catra’s eyes close and her nose is scrunched up; Adora smiles at her without meaning to and feels something in her chest warm. Catra cracks open an eye a moment later, and parrots the “what,” Adora had said just moments ago.

“Oh shut up,” Adora responds. She shoves at Catra. They're giggling, pushing at each other's arms, and it takes them several minutes before they remember they’re supposed to get a table.

Catra talks to a waitress and they get a booth near the back. The diner is retro; floor a black and white checkerboard, walls adorned with 80s records. A jukebox sits in the back. The lighting is hazy and neon, and Adora slips into the red leather seat, feeling the plastic of the menu beneath her hands. There’s the triple chocolate milkshake she always orders, the knicks on the wall from missing at darts. She breathes in the familiarity and then just smiles. There are some places that just are, and when you stop watching, they become home.

And then there’s Catra in front of her. She’s not quite the comfort of home, not yet, but more the thrill of adventure, electricity in Adora’s veins. Without thinking, she reaches out, touches Catra’s hand. Her fingers are warm and soft, and Adora draws her palm back as quickly as she can, face on fire. 

“So,” she says, refusing to meet Catra’s eyes. “What are you gonna order?”

“I’ve barely looked at the menu, relax.” Catra laughs and then drops her eyes to the menu in front of her, muttering something in Spanish. “Milkshakes any good?”

“God yes,” says Adora. “You’re going to be ruined. No other food will compare.”

“Is this another freakishly disturbing relationship between you and inanimate objects?” Catra teases, hitting Adora over the head with her menu.

“Oh come on. You’re just jealous of my guitar. And besides--” She gestures to the counter, where milkshakes sit in tall glasses. “You won’t be arguing with me once you’ve had one.”

“I’m not arguing. Just concerned by you’re relationships--”

“Love, Catra,” says Adora, and then flushes despite herself. “It’s true love.”

“Sure. Whatever you say.”

She can’t look at Catra for a moment, which is why she’s glad the waiter decides to arrive right then. 

“Hey there,” he says, smiling at the two of them. “What can I get for you lovely ladies?” He’s looking too intensely at Adora, and she fidgets, disliking the weight of his gaze.

“Just a chocolate milkshake,” she says.

“Strawberry milkshake for me,” says Catra, glancing between Adora and the waiter. He smiles and moves forward to take their menus, fingers brushing Adora’s as he does. She pulls them back but not before he winks, and shakes her head firmly, a clear ‘no’.

“They’ll be right out.” 

He walks back to the kitchen. The moment he’s gone, Catra begins to laugh.

“Oh god, he was totally hitting on you.” Her amusement sounds a bit forced, and she drops it, moves out to touch Adora’s hand. “You okay? You look a little unsettled.”

“I’m fine,” says Adora. “Honestly, I feel bad for him! He’s hitting on a lesbian.”

She waits, watches for Catra’s response. The other girl only smiles, a look of what might be relief passing over her face, before she nods and says, “yeah, same.”

“Oh. Cool.” Adora can feel her heartbeat in her throat. Her hands begin to shake under the table, and she forces them to stop, quenches her smile before it gets disturbingly wide. She’s failing, probably. She’s smiling so much she looks insane. Dentists would fear her. Those creepy dolls with the huge grins would be envious. She probably looks like a psychopath, or like she broke out of some asylum--but Catra doesn’t recoil or laugh. She smiles back, much more contained than Adora, and holy shit. It feels like there’s something alive inside Adora’s chest.

“Besides,” Catra says finally, “I knew it when you showed up in a baseball cap and letter jacket.” This sends Adora over the edge; they’re both laughing, smiling at each other, when the waiter comes back with their drinks.

“Prepare to be amazed,” says Adora, reaching for her glass.

“Already am,” Catra says. 

Adora looks up in surprise, but Catra isn’t looking at her; she studies her glass instead, poking at the straw. There’s so many meanings behind that--is she amazed by Adora? The diner?--but Adora stops thinking about that when Catra leans forward and curls her mouth around the straw.

Her lips are chapped and pursed, and her eyes widen slightly as she sips, before she sighs and tips her head back. Adora can’t do anything but stare. She has forgotten how to form sentences. She has forgotten how to function. She’s pretty sure Catra has shut down the normal interaction part of her brain, and now she’s just watching like some sort of creep, but she doesn’t even care right now, because Catra looks so damn hot.

She’s smirking around her straw, fingers curled around the glass--and wow, Adora has never been more jealous of a tube of plastic before, but she guesses there’s time for anything. Catra sips slowly, eyes on Adora, like she’s perfectly aware of what she’s doing. Adora swallows; she feels like she is holding a star on the verge of explosion inside her chest.

“Hey Adora,” Catra drawls, letting the straw slip from her mouth. “You’re looking a little brain damaged over there.”

“I’m not brain damaged,” protests Adora, and then shoves her own straw into her mouth to avoid saying anything more. The milkshake is creamy and sweet, and she’s half finished it by the time she remembers she needs to breathe. 

She sighs and goes to exhale, but then chokes again, because Catra is sucking at her straw. Her cheeks are hallowed and her lips are pursed, and Adora’s brain is going to places it shouldn’t be, both literally and physically. It’s south of her stomach. It has probably exited her body. She’s going to fucking die just because a hot girl is drinking a milkshake in front of her, and this is how she will be known.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> updating schedule? heh. whats that? 
> 
> on a more serious note, i am so sorry it took an extra week. here is the next chapter. i'll try to be better at updating. comments/kudos r appreciated.


	5. the shake, rattle and roll

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which there is flirting and discussions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a short chapter. apologies.

Catra finally decides to take pity on Adora. She finishes the milkshake, lets the straw slip from her mouth, and pushes it aside, leaving smudges of condensation on the table. There is something to be said about making Adora flush; it's its own art form, but she’d like to get to know her as well, which is why she leans forward and says, “so, what kind of music do you write?”

Adora chokes on her milkshake. “I--oh god.” She doubles over, coughing, and her face turns bright red. She doesn’t meet Catra's eyes either, just ducks her head and stares out the window.

“Adora," says Carta, concerned. "You okay?”

“Fine.” Adora coughs again. “It’s nothing. My music, I mean. You don't--”

“Oh god, please don’t tell me you write country or something.”

“I don’t write country music!” Adora shrieks, sounding horrified. "Where did you even--"

“Then what is it? Opera? Death metal? _Dubstep_?” Please don’t be dubstep. Catra refuses to like a girl who makes dubstep music.

Adora’s eyes widen in offense. “What?” she says. “ _D_ _ubstep_? God no!”

“Then what is it?” Catra laughs at her expression--a mix between indignation and panic, but stops after Adora makes another choked noise. “Relax. I won’t make fun.”

“It’s nothing,” Adora says again. “Really.”

“Hey, I get if you’re embarrassed. You don’t have to answer--”

“Alt pop, I guess.” The answer tumbles out of Adora’s mouth, and she claps her hands up, glances around the restaurant. She won’t stop shifting, fingers tugging at her hair, rearranging the cutlery, drumming against the seat. “I’m more interested in doing rock music, but my band is geared towards alternative and pop. We do some slower singles, though.”

“Dios mío,” says Catra. She feels her body go hot. “That’s so fucking cool.”

“I guess.”

“You _guess_? Adora, that’s amazing. I didn’t know you were in a band.”

“Yeah.” Adora shrugs. “I have a solo project, but I work with them.”

“You ever released anything?”

Catra could just be imagining it--but Adora’s eyes seem to widen. She takes a drink of her milkshake, hands fluttering against the seat, and then breathes hard, doesn’t look at Catra--who can’t help but feel like she’s done something wrong. 

“You don’t have to answer that,” she says at last, holding up a hand. “I was just curious.”

“No, it’s fine,” Adora says. “It’s nice when people are curious.”

“And I am.” Catra wonders if that’s too much to say--but when she looks up, Adora is beaming, easy and unconcerned. The sight helps to ease the tightness at her chest, which tangles and twists like a rope. “Um. Anyways. If you don’t wanna talk about your music, then what other hobbies do you have?”

“Twenty questions?” Adora says, smirking. “Nice.”

“Hey! I’m just tryna help!”

“I know,” Adora says simply. “It’s cute.” Her nose wrinkles; Catra feels her heart stop beating for a moment, and then resume at twice the normal tempo, hammering in her fingertips, her skull. Does Adora mean that or is she just teasing? She doesn’t know Adora well enough, which irks her; it would be helpful to be able to distinguish the difference between a compliment and a throw away line. 

“Anyways,” Adora continues, oblivious to Catra’s distress, “if we’re still talking about hobbies, I like sports. Any kind.”

“Jock.”

“Guilty as charged.” She shrugs a little, fingering at the buttons of her jacket. “Like yeah, I like music, but it was something I had to do. Something I was good at, but not the career I would have chosen if I was in a different situation.”

“Foster system,” Catra says grimly. Adora nods.

“Exactly. It was always sort of an anchor, y’know? Something to keep myself sane. And I couldn’t stand it there--I started releasing music to make money, gain attention.” She seems to realize how this must sound, because she flushes and holds her hands up a moment later. “Oh god, I didn’t mean to--”

“It’s fine.” Catra can’t meet her eyes, hands flexing back and forth on the table. Her fingernails are long despite months of falling and climbing, and she digs them into her palms, feels the familiar prickle of blood. In truth, she can feel something lodged in her throat like a slice of apple, envy or anger or everything in between, because even if it’s not Adora’s fault, it’s not _fair_. How come she got to be successful, while Catra is being chased down by the police? How come she got a family, a career? Catra is applying for college, sure, but Adora got the easy way out. She always does--which is enough to make Catra go rigid, spine stiff like it’s a metal rod. She doesn’t know Adora. She can’t say that.

_She got out all those years ago_ , Catra reminds herself. But that’s not the same Adora. A first name doesn’t mean anything, and she’ll repeat it as many times as it takes for it to stick.

But it still feels _wrong_.

“Catra?” Adora blinks slowly. Her lashes are dark and thick, like the fringes of a scarf.

“ _Que_? Sorry. I spaced out.” She tries to smile, obviously forced, but it must be enough for Adora, who either doesn’t notice or pretends not to. She lifts a shoulder, drops it, and then leans towards Catra. Her eyes are an alarming shade of blue.

“I said what about you? For hobbies. Twenty questions works both ways, you know.”

“Oh, look who accepted the game.”

“Shut up,” Adora laughs, reaching to push at Catra’s shoulder. The moment they make contact, the tension in Catra’s chest opens like a strongbox and gives way to something lighter, dizzying. “I wanna know about you too.”

“Of course you do,” she scoffs. She’s smiling though, which probably ruins the effect. “Let’s see. I like skating, milkshakes, and breaking into cute girl’s hotel rooms.”

“You think I’m cute?” says Adora smugly. Catra freezes, and then flushes red, shrugging her hand off.

“No! _Mierda_. Shut up!”

“You said it.”

“I think that ego of yours is blocking the way to your ears.” 

“Maybe.” Adora stops smirking to beam, and Catra relents, returning her smile. “But tell me something I don’t know. Like what you’re studying? What are your interests?”

“I’m gonna major in art,” Catra offers. “I have a few scholarships to colleges around here. And I’m applying for several just to be safe.”

“Smart,” Adora says. And then: “Wait. You do art?”

“There’s more to me than skater girl,” Catra laughs. She loves skateboarding, sure, but what she truly loves is painting; the bend of colors and shapes emerging beneath her pen. She loves that she can put people together with lead and spiral notebooks; can paint anger in a red slash across a canvas, or render people speechless with her work. Art is playing an instrument, just more passionate, messier, to the point where she doesn’t just draw; she bleeds, she _breathes_. Catra’s always felt like she has something missing, some hole she has to fill, but with art, the only thing incomplete is the canvas in front of her, and she’s perfectly content to fill it; to cut open her mind like a vein and bleed color and texture and pain.

“I--” Adora stares at her and then shakes her head. “I know that, Catra.”

“I know.” She feels uncomfortable, suddenly, under the other girl’s gaze. “It’s your turn, so--”

“Hey, wait.” Adora grins. “I’m still curious.”

“Fine. Fire away.”

“Only if you’re comfortable.” She sees Catra roll her eyes, and then repeats the motion, which makes Catra laugh and push her shoulder. “Hey, I’m just being polite! What’s your medium?”

“Painting, I guess,” Catra says. “But it’s pretty hard to store decent supplies in Horde, so I stick to sketching.”

Adora doesn’t ask about the Horde, which she’s grateful for, just winces and says, “ouch. Favorite band?”

“The Strokes,” says Catra.

“Nice.”

“You?”

“Mara.”

She’s some pop sensation, if Catra can recall correctly. She’s heard a few of her songs, but can’t remember any. 

“Huh,” Catra says. Mara’s fans call themselves ‘Friends of Mara’, but that’s about all she knows. “Cool.”

“Her song is playing right now,” Adora says, pointing to the ceiling. Catra tilts her head, listening for the music under the chatter of the diner. It’s surprisingly lofi, all mellow chords and polyrhythms--no wonder Adora likes her, she thinks, with just a tinge of jealousy. “It’s called Eternia.”

“Cool.” The song ends a moment later. Adora sticks out her lip in a pout, eyes comically wide. 

“Hey,” Catra says, laughing, “maybe they’ll play another.”

“I hope so.” They both pause to listen. 

Another melody starts up, more upbeat and distinctly familiar; Catra frowns, recognizing it as some Princess Alliance song--a huge pop band, led by the singer She-Ra. She’s never understood the hype, exactly, but they’re a huge sensation, winning MTV awards and Grammys alike.

“We Must be Strong,” says Catra, naming the song title. “Ha? What are they, weight lifters? Am I right?”

She turns to Adora, who sits stock still, fingers flexing against her side like she’s been given some sort of shock. Catra isn’t a fan of the Princess Alliance--sure, She Ra is hot and all, but it’s not her type of music--but the moment it comes on, Adora’s face twists like she’s heard something awful, and she can’t meet Catra’s eyes. 

“Someone’s not a fan,” Catra says, startled. She reaches out to touch Adora’s palm, provide some sort of comfort. Adora’s face goes red, and then bone-white, and she pulls her shoulders down like she’s trying to disappear into herself. She doesn’t draw away though, so Catra keeps her hand there, rubbing circles along her wrist.

“Hey. Adora. Relax.” She can hear the other girl breathing, and adds, “if you hate the song this much, we can ask them to change it.”

“I don’t--” Adora shudders. Catra can practically see her putting herself together; shoulders straightening, breathing in, pulling the different parts of her body together like she’s threading a shoelace. Her body is still stiff, but she looks more at ease now, face a normal shade.

“Yeah,” she says, coughing. “I’m _fiiiiine_. Couldn’t breathe there for a moment. Totally not because of the band at all.” Adora laughs, waves her hand. 

Catra figures there’s something more there, but she doesn’t press, just pulls her hand back and offers Adora water. The waiter has come back with the bill, which he places between them, before taking their glasses and leaving again.

“I’ll pay,” says Adora.

“Not a chance,” Catra says. 

They both lunge for it. Adora is stronger than she is, but Catra’s not afraid to play dirty, so right as she’s about to lose her grip, she reaches out to lick Adora’s palm. Adora doesn’t move, just gasps as they make contact--Catra’s chin resting on her wrist. She doesn’t actually lick her--Catra has some shame, after all--but she pries away the bill while Adora is distracted and raises it into the air.

“You heathen,” Adora says. She doesn’t look mad though, just slightly shaken, and Catra laughs as they both breath hard.

“Hey, I won though.”

“You cheated!”

“I still won.” She fills in the information, making sure to leave a good tip. “Besides, it’s not like we established any rules, so technically--”

“You’re awful.”  
  


“Oh, be quiet.” The waiter comes to take the bill. Catra kicks at her skateboard, which is under the table, suddenly uneasy; she feels like she’s full of energy and that it’s building up, pushing to get out of a too-tight skin. “Hey, um. Is this a one time thing?”

“You mean returning the skateboard?” Adora smirks. “I hope not. Only so many times you can lose it.”

“No, I mean--”

“I’m kidding, Catra. The diner.” Adora suddenly looks nervous. “I’d like to do this again, if you’re up for it.”

“Yeah.” Catra feels her chest go warm. “Yeah, definitely.”

They smile at each other for longer than it is socially acceptable, and then Adora coughs, ducks her head.

  
“And if you want to see me--”

“I always know where your hotel room is,” finishes Catra, nodding.

Adora screeches. “I mean my phone number, you--you . . . oh. _Oh_.” She repeats it again as Catra doubles over laughing, shoulders shaking with the strain. “Oh come on!”

“Your face,” Catra wheezes. “You’re all, ‘no’! ‘Felon’! ‘Whatever am I going to do’!” She laughs and Adora joins in a moment later. “ _Dios_ , that was priceless.”

Wind rushes through the shop and a bell chimes. Catra doesn’t really register it--she’s too busy laughing, wiping at her eyes--but moments later something slams down on the table and a familiar voice goes:

“Adora. What the hell are you doing?”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> adora is a bad actor and catra doesn't have any shame. what else is new? im also gonna start making the chapters longer after this--they'll be around twice the length. updating will take longer (duh) but i think it'll help the story progress. i'm sorry this was so short. thank u so much for reading.


	6. this house is a circus (berserk as fuck)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which shadow weaver is awful, and adora angsts, and the best friend squad r goals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry for the late update! i haven't been feeling well, so i had to take some time off. this chapter doesn't have much catra or adora interaction but it is longer than usual! thank u sm for all your support
> 
> a bit of a trigger warning for anxiety if u don't like that sort of thing

“Mom?” Adora turns her head towards Shadow Weaver, who stands before them, both hands on the table. She’s wearing her trademark red mask, and despite her face being covered, Adora can feel her fury, palpable, like some sort of toxin in the air. “What are you doing here?”

“What am _I_ doing here?” Shadow Weaver repeats. Her voice is mild, but Adora still recoils, a full body shudder than only increases when she adds, “you disobeyed my orders. You should be working on your album, not here fraternizing with some--some--” She turns to Catra and makes a sound of disgust. “--some insolent child!”  
  


“Mom!” Adora knows her adoptive mother can be rude, but she’s never witnessed her act out in public. “You can’t just say that! Apologize to Catra!” She turns to her friend, who sits stock still, eyes fixed on some point over Shadow Weaver’s shoulder. Her mouth is open slightly; she’s completely frozen bar her hands, which open and close on the table like butterflies wings. She doesn’t respond, doesn’t snap out a comeback, only flinches a bit when Adora touches her shoulder, fingers slipping underneath the fabric of her shirt. Her arms tremble slightly; when Adora pulls her hand away, it’s tinged with sweat.

“Catra?” Adora says.

Her voice is too open, too concerned, electric and messy with emotion like a livewire between them. She bites down on it the moment it escapes, but Shadow Weaver turns to her anyways, drops a hand on Adora’s shoulder and squeezes. 

It feels like a threat.

“So it’s you who’s been distracting my daughter from her work.”

“I met her yesterday,” Adora protests. Shadow Weaver only tightens her grip, Adora gasping out, as her nails bite at her collarbone like sets of teeth. “Ow! Let go of me!”

“Excuses get you nowhere.” This is directed at both of them. “Adora, we should be leaving.”

“It’s _you_.”

They both turn to Catra. Her voice is strangled when she speaks, the words raw like they’ve been sandpapered. She stands up, one hand against the table for support, and instantly falls to the booth again. She doesn’t meet either of their eyes. 

“It’s you.”

“Catra?” Adora reaches out for her. Catra moves away at the last moment. She fumbles forward, reaching for her skateboard; she’s on it moments later and is pushing her way out of the restaurant. Adora shoves Shadow Weaver to the left and follows, heartbeat a pulse of adrenaline in her throat.

“Catra!” she calls. Catra doesn’t get off her skateboard, just fucking kicks open the door. She goes swerving into the street a moment later, and then is absorbed into traffic. Adora turns around and around, but Catra is gone.

What the hell was that?

“Adora.” Shadow Weaver has caught up with her. “We should get going. You have an album to write and you’ve wasted enough time talking to this petty child. You do not--”

“No.” Adora steps backwards. “I don’t know what the hell went down there, but you don’t get to talk to people like that. I’ll go back to the hotel, but I’m not going with you. I don’t understand what your problem is.”

Shadow Weaver is five feet away, but she moves so quickly Adora doesn’t even register it. Her hand curls around Adora’s wrist in a vise grip and she yanks Adora forward.

“You don’t talk to me like that,” she hisses. Adora twists out of her grip. 

She’s flushed with adrenaline and nerves and confusion, but most of all, _hurt--_ hurt at Catra for leaving her and at Shadow Weaver for how she’s treating them, an anger that comes up in a boiling rush. She feels it in her veins like hot water, and then stinging: in her eyes, in her mouth, through the words, “don’t you dare do that again,” that she spits at Shadow Weaver like they burn her tongue. There’s something electrifying about it; she repeats it, watching her adoptive mother’s eyes go wide.

“You don’t get to talk to _me_ like that,” she says. She straightens. “I’m leaving.”

And Adora takes off.

She doesn’t even realize she’s running until Shadow Weaver yells for her to stop; she only pushes forwards, then, shoving her way through the crowd. Her heart pounds against her throat and she feels her hair thump against her back; somewhere she’s lost her baseball cap, though it’s not like she can’t replace it. She clears in the street in less than a minute, and then keeps running, veering into downtown LA.

The hurt, the confusion, the indignant anger--all of that fades away as Adora continues sprinting, past the shops and cafes and open plazas until the landscape blurs around her. Her mind is clear for what feels like the first time in days, and she continues to run, savouring the burn in her legs and thighs. There is something addictive about it; the rhythm of her feet in front of the other, the air burning her throat on the way down.

She makes it all the way to the hotel before she finally stops, and then collapses in the middle of the lobby. No one pays her any attention--when you’re a celebrity, you can get away with fucking anything--so she enjoys a minute of uninterrupted rest, before someone nudges her and says, “Adora, what the fuck?”

Not an uncommon question, but Adora rolls over anyways, and sees Glimmer and Bow. They’re still in pajamas despite the fact it’s one, Glimmer in a pink sequined nightgown and Bow in a panda onesie--with the stomach somehow cropped.

Jesus. Adora honestly thinks that if they weren’t famous, the three of them would be locked up for public disturbances or some shit like that. Though she and Glimmer have been threatened with arrest once. It’s a long story.

“I don’t even know,” she says and drops her face to the carpet. Bow and Glimmer each take an arm and hoist her up. 

“Did you run all the way here?”

“Maybe.” Adora shrugs the best she can. “How far would that be?”

“Ten miles,” says Bow, wide eyed. “If you went to Tops Diner, like you said. Adora, what the heck?"

“Ha. It’s a long story.” They drag her into the elevator. She slumps against the wall, humming, too tired to care; her leg aches and her eyes prickle. She doesn’t want to cry, but her body doesn’t get the memo--though she manages to suppress the tears for the ride up. 

She can’t believe Catra would just run away like that. She thought they were hitting it off. Hell, maybe there was something more between them, but clearly not. Maybe Adora’s done something wrong. There’s no other explanation for why Catra would run off--it’s obviously her fault.

The thought makes her scowl, and Bow puts a hand on her shoulder, offers up a smile.

“Hey,” he says. “It’s alright. We’ll get you some hot chocolate, and we can just chill with you today. You’ll be fine.”

“I just don’t know what happened,” Adora says. “It’s like one moment, we’re hitting it off, and then Shadow Weaver comes, and then Catra runs off.” She buries her face into Bow’s shoulder. Lets out a groan. “Thanks though. I appreciate it.”

They touch foreheads for a moment, and then Glimmer hugs her too. She smells like bubblegum, and Adora feels herself relax.

“Adora, I’m so sorry. Shadow Weaver--” She bites her lip. “We tried to stall her as long as we could. We didn’t tell her anything, but--”

“I get it.” Adora groans again. “I can’t believe her--she just walks in and insults Catra and orders me around! Maybe you’re right. She’s a bitch.”

“Took you this long to realize it,” says Glimmer, wry. Her expression sours a moment later, and she says, “seriously, Adora, you need to get away from her. That woman is awful.”

“I mean--yeah, fine. But she took me in. She’s not _all_ bad.”

Bow and Glimmer exchange looks. Adora knows fully well what that means and heaves a sigh, slings an arm around each of their shoulders and drags them together. Bow looks at Glimmer and then away just as quickly. Glimmer is flushed red and fidgety; she won’t meet Bow’s eyes as well.

_Idiots_ , thinks Adora.

(They’re probably both thinking this about her too, but she doesn’t linger on it. It’s called _self care_.)

“So,” she says, with her biggest smile, “what did you say about that hot chocolate?”

***

The hot chocolate helps. The warm blankets help. The violent ranting about Shadow Weaver and Catra also helps, even if it isn’t what Perfuma would call a healthy coping mechanism. By the end of it, Adora is almost feeling like she’s back to normal--spare the tightness she gets when she looks at her phone. 

“I just don’t get it.” They’re all in a blanket fort, sprawled out over pillows and various bags of food. Bow and Glimmer are touching hands under the covers and are trying to be subtle about it, but their bright red faces give them away. “I don’t know why she would just leave.”

“Adora, it’s not your fault.”

“But what if it is!” She knows she’s being annoying, but she can’t help it. The worry that she somehow drove Catra away shifts under her skin, spreading and inconsolable in the same way an itch is. “I could have reacted wrong, or did something. Shit, I don’t--”

“Adora.” Bow leans forward to touch her shoulder. “You said you guys were hitting it off until Shadow Weaver came?”

“Yeah, I guess. But she doesn’t know Shadow Weaver. So why would she react like that?”

“Because it’s Shadow weaver,” Glimmer snorts. “Besides, if she insulted her--”

“Which she did.”

“--Catra would be sure to run away. Shadow Weaver is a lot.”

“She did call her an insolent child,” Adora admits. She rubs at her neck. Her chest is so tight she can’t breathe; the fear that she’s let someone down, that she’s let _Catra_ down, is like an infection that her body fights, obviously evident in the way she can’t help but say, “still, I didn’t--”

“Adora,” Bow repeats. He sounds firm, but not frustrated. “Text her. Even if you did do something wrong, which is highly unlikely, it can’t be bad enough that it can’t be resolved with an apology.

“Adora.” He repeats this when she doesn’t move. It’s about the extent of what she can take; Adora caves, reaching out for her phone. She types out several variations of the same message before deleting them all.

“I don’t know what to say.” 

Her heart rate is too fast. What if it’s bad? What if Catra thinks she’s being stupid and doesn’t want to deal with her? Her hands shake; she rubs out the tremors, a nausea-like, sticky panic thumping through her chest. She can get through this. She can get through this--if she remembers how to fucking breathe.

  
Neither Bow nor Glimmer say anything, but both of them come to her side. Adora curls into them and shudders once, twice, before her body gives out.

“I don't know why I’m freaking out, there must be something wrong with me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Glimmer says firmly. “Now give me the phone. We’ll do this together. Like we always do.”

***

It takes them a while to figure out a message that Adora likes. Eventually, they settle on ‘ _Hey Catra. I don’t know what happened back at the diner, but I hope you’re alright. If it was anything I did, I’m so sorry. I had fun and I’d like to do this again, if you’re okay with that.’_ Adora presses send with her eyes close, because she is brave, okay, and then throws the phone across the room. Bow and Glimmer sink into her embrace, and she smiles against them, so grateful it almost hurts.

“I love you guys, okay?”

“Love you too.” They eventually pull back. Adora is going to find a way to repay them for this. They’re such incredible friends; she doesn’t know what she’d do without them. “See, that wasn’t so bad!”

“It was a little bad.”

Bow doesn’t argue despite his initial statement, just laughs and stands up. “We’re supposed to be having a rehearsal around three,” he says. “We should get going. They’ve set up some makeshift studio, because, well, y’know.”

“It’s something about songwriting,” Glimmer adds. “Because of Mara and all.”

Adora feels the words ping through her like quarters in a machine. Between her--date? hangout?--with Catra, and it’s terrible fallout, she hasn’t thought about her idol coming all day.

“I know. I know. Forgetting? How could I forget?” She’s probably overdoing it with the last part; Glimmer, as if proving her point, rakes a palm across her face and groans. “Besides, I can get it done! The songwriting, I mean. Because I totally didn’t forget.”

“Sure you didn’t,” Glimmer drawls. “And it’s never too late to get help, y’know?”

“Me? Help? As if.” There’s a truth to the words that stings, lodges under her skin like a splinter and grates. She does her best to ignore it; she can get through this, assistance or not. 

“Now come on. I already messed up our first rehearsal. I don’t want to be late.”

(“We’re already late,” says Bow.

“We’re trying to be supportive,” hisses Glimmer.

_Just kiss already_ , Adora thinks, and then blanches before realizing she hasn’t said it out loud.)

They change out of their pajamas. Perfuma is waiting outside their door with Entrapta--who works in tech and lighting--and claps her hands when she sees the three of them.

“Adora! How was your date?”

“I don’t even know,” says Adora, groaning. She looks up a moment later. “Wait! Perfuma! It’s not a date!”

“Too late,” Mermista drawls from the otherside of the hallway. 

She’s standing with Seahawk, who wears a shirt that says ‘Arson is Bad’. (“Not his doing, obviously,” Glimmer hisses. Adora lets out a snort.)

“What did you get on fire this time?” 

She points to the shirt in question. Seahawk looks down and blinks, like he had forgotten he was wearing it. Mermista groans and clamps a hand over his mouth.

“Ugh, don’t remind him. I’ve brought like, six pairs, and he’s ripped all of them. Like, literally ripped them off his body. This is the last.”

“It was for adventure,” manages Seahawk, sounding deeply wounded.

“You won’t have any adventure when you’re in jail.”

“Jail cannot contain me!” yells Seahawk. He strikes a pose. Mermista rolls her eyes fondly. Perfuma claps again.

“Entrapa, you are not allowed to vlog this,” Glimmer says. Adora turns to where Entrapta is filming something, one hand on her recorder while she mutters about the constructs of social interaction. Not that Entrapta would actually make a vlog, but it’s always a concern. Perfuma’s last livestream . . . Adora shudders even to think about it.

“Of course not.” Entrapta shakes her head. Why she’s working with them, Adora has no idea. Entrapta is smart enough to take down the FBI using only a Samsung phone and a pair of pipecleaners. “This data is classified. Your mom wanted me to do some slideshow thing, but--” She makes a shushing motion. “--it’s a secret.”

“Great,” says Glimmer, who is trying not to laugh. “She’s so sentimental.”

  
“It’s sweet!” Adora takes a moment to look around. Bow is trying to help Mermista wrestle Seahawk into a shirt--he’s torn his off--and Perfuma is holding a hydro flask like it’s a weapon. Glimmer and Entrapta are going off on their own monologues, and it’s all so chaotic that Adora has to put her hand against her mouth and _laugh_. 

Being a musician is stressful. It’s tour buses and ticket stubs and hours spent in the studio; singing until your voice is raw. It’s the blinding lights of an auditorium, both empty and full, and moving up on stage until you can hardly move, body aching and sore, wrung out like a dish towel. It’s the anticipation that comes with a new album, the knowing that with every song you sing, every note you hit, you are writing a legacy, carving your way through stone, and sometimes it won’t be enough for some people, sometimes they’ll hate it. Adora can hardly stand the pressure of this sometimes: she feels like a piece of mortar, being pushed down until she cracks.

But it’s also moments like this. In the hallway of a hotel with your best friends, infectious laughter as you spill into the elevations, arms linked like paper clips. It’s the small and the chaotic, memories preserved like flowers between book pages, and with it, it’s so easy to forget. The demands and the expectations that mold and shape her, press in like fingers on clay, are gone, and Adora can breathe again, free from thoughts of Shadow Weaver or song writing or reaching the bar she’s set.

She is She-Ra, but today, she is Adora. And that means something, if only to her.

Adora tilts back her head and laughs and laughs and laughs.

***

Adora’s good mood extends throughout rehearsals. What they don’t reach in mechanics they make up with enthusiasm, and by the time Angella calls it quits, even she is smiling: a rare, blinding sight that makes Adora grin in reflex. She packs up her guitar and starts out towards the common room; they’re going to do karaoke and brainstorm song ideas, band tradition, but before she can make it through the door, Angella grabs her arm.

“Adora,” she says. “A moment.”

Adora swallows. She knows she’s not in trouble, not actually, but the thin line of Angella’s mouth makes her feel like she’s done something wrong. Her body fights against it, and she feels nauseous for a moment before she swallows it done. Not for the first time, she wonders if there’s something wrong with her--something as simple as disapproval shouldn’t make her eyes sting.

They end up sitting on opposite ends of the room. Angella stands next to the wall and Adora perches herself behind Bow’s drum kit. The cymbals have heart stickers on them; seeing it puts her more at ease.

“So,” she says finally, breaking the silence. “Did I do something wrong? I can’t think why I’d be here, unless--”

“Adora.” Angella shakes her head. “You have to stop being so hard on yourself.”

“I--what?”

“That’s not . . . ” Angella shakes her head. “This isn’t what I wanted to discuss, but I suppose it’s just as important. You’re pushing yourself too hard, Adora. The standards you hold yourself to are impossible.”

“Just because I offered to write the album?” Her voice comes out strangled. “That’s--I’m--I’m helping!”

“Yes, but you’re exhausting yourself. Asking for help isn’t a bad thing. You’re not just She-Ra, you’re part of the Alliance.”

“I’m not going to burden my bandmates,” Adora says. Her throat is tight, like a vise. She can hardly breathe.

“Adora, no one thinks of you as a burden. You don’t need to pull your weight to prove this.”

_But what if I do?_ Adora thinks. She’s spent her whole life in the foster system, unwanted. What happens when people start realizing this? She has to prove to them that she’s worth something. That she’s worth the extra space. Because if she doesn’t, she doubts she’ll believe it herself. And it’s one thing to feel unwanted, but it’s another to feel it inside yourself; you can’t escape from emotion, can’t shove the feeling to some deep, dusted corner. It’s there with you, a layer of skin. And Adora hasn’t learned to shed hers yet, hasn’t quite made herself at home in her body--which is why she says nothing.

“---at any rate, you’re going to tire yourself out.” Angella is looking at her. Belatedly, Adora realizes she’s been talking this whole time. “Adora?”

“Yeah, uh, totally. Totally.” She forces an almost painful grin. Angella regards it for a moment, and Adora shifts. Her gaze feels like a pinch. “Is this all? Because we’re gonna have karaoke, and--”

“I don’t know why I try,” Angella grumbles. It’s not resentful, though; it’s warm and fond. Adora feels the words in her chest clog up, like a cork in a wine bottle. She can trust Angella, she knows that. So why is it so hard to open up?

“Thanks anyways,” she manages. “And I, uh. I appreciate it. It’s nice to know someone cares.”

“Of course,” says Angella. She stands up, and before Adora realizes what is happening, she’s being pulled into a hug. 

It’s stiff at first, a little awkward; she’s never hugged adults other than the mandatory embraces from Shadow Weaver’s and hosts on interviews. But Angella is familiar. She is Glimmer’s mom, and it’s easy, really, easier than Adora expects, to relax in her arms. She stays there for several minutes until Angella pulls away, touching their foreheads together briefly. It’s enough to ease the wild spike of her heartbeat and the sweat prickling at her palms; she swallows, steps back.

“Thank you,” she says. She turns to leave.

“Wait!” Angella holds out a hand. “I just wanted to let you know--” She coughs. Adora wonders if she’s flushing. “Glimmer told me about you friend and what happened with your . . . your mother. Lila Spinner.”

It’s obvious that mother isn’t the word she wanted to use. Adora flinches without meaning too, and rubs a tremor from her hand.

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know what happened, but if she’s ever--”

“She’s not,” Adora protests. The words feel numb, an echo at the bottom of an empty cavern. “Really, Angella, it’s okay.”

“Well, in any case, if you don’t feel safe or comfortable around her, you’re always welcome here.” Her hand lingers over her chest, right where her hearts would be. Adora wonders if it’s intentional. It sends a spike through her own. “I’ve never trusted her, anyways. She always--”

“Going,” Adora says. She ignores her voice cracking and the sudden press of tears at her eyes. It doesn’t mean anything, but the promise of a second home pulses and throbs at her, blooms in her chest.

It feels like an ache. It feels like a heartbeat.

She pushes open the door and doesn’t look back.

***

Karaoke is the same as usual. Mermista sings some rock song, Seahawk yodels at a tempo high enough to crack glass, and Glimmer and Bow perform _All Star._ It’s pretty uneventful, considering that their parties usually end with at least one person unconscious and something of importance on fire. 

Adora spends her time talking with Perfuma and jotting down ideas for songwriting. Despite the fact that the studio is burned down, the songwriting process has not been postponed, only raised to a higher importance since Mara is coming in less than a month. She doesn’t have much concentration to focus on good lyrics though, not while Glimmer, drunk on Kool Aid, is singing Gangnam Style at the top of her lungs. Eventually she has to excuse herself (though not without a promise from Mermista to record the whole thing) and heads back towards her hotel room.

Her phone is on the floor, where she left it. She takes a deep breath.

_I can do this. I’ve performed in front of thousands of people. I’ve had concerts reaching one million. How hard can it be?_

Very hard apparently.

It takes her five minutes to work up the courage to even touch the phone, let alone turn it on. She’s terrified that it will be blank--or even worse, reveal a text cursing her off or blaming her. She knows Catra would never do that, but it’s still difficult to not jump to the worst possible scenario. Which is why ten minutes pass before she hits the home button and the screen flares to life.

One new text. Catra.

Adora blinks to make sure she’s not imagining it. Then clutches her head and blinks again.

“Holy shit,” she says. She cradles the phone close, breathing hard--there are no curse words that jump out, but she can never be sure. Slowly, and with all the caution of a woman handling a bomb, Adora’s eyes lower to the text.

It reads: _hey. sorry for freaking out on u. it wasn’t ur fault. i had a good time and i’d like to do it again, if you’re up for it._

There’s no explanation, but Adora doesn’t care. She figures Catra will give it to her when she’s ready. This is good enough. The pressure in her chest cracks open like a strongbox, and she breathes hard, smiling. 

Catra is alright. She wants to do this again.

Adora, being the responsible adult she is, proceeds to scream in her pillow for the next hour over this.

(At some point, it gets loud enough to warrant Bow busting in with the medical staff, demanding if she’s hurt, before taking one look at her starstruck face and saying, “Catra.” He dismisses the doctors and makes heart eyes. “That’s so cute!”

“Rip Adora,” Glimmer says, peering out from behind him. “Died of a near fatal crush. The blow was delivered near the heart, but also had an impact on the brain, rendering her incapable of thought--”

“Oh yeah? You want to go?” 

Despite the fact that she’s giggling enough to make her fall over, Adora can still throw with deadly aim. The pillow hits Glimmer in her stomach, and she stumbles backwards, straight into Bow. Her head presses against his collarbone and his arms wrap around her, and there’s a moment where they’re both leaning into each other and flushing bright red.

_Fight me cupid,_ Adora thinks. _I will end your career._

Both of them are still blushing and prolonging contact, so Adora has time to ready her next attack. By the time they break apart, she’s lunging at them with a pillow in each hand, cackling, but they don’t even move.

They all go down together in one laughing heap on the floor.

***

Bow and Glimmer can’t sadly stay the night. Adora shoves her dresser in front of the door after they go--Shadow Weaver has a key to the room--and huddles against the wall, notebook in hand. She already knows she won’t be able to sleep; she’s too electric for that, thrumming with an energy that fizzles in her skin and under her fingers, an overload that leaves her sparking and raw down to her core. The sensation feels like anger without the actual rage behind it; she wants to run or scream or punch something, but for no reason other than unleashing the energy.

It’s in times like this when she does the only thing she can. Adora gets a pencil and a piece of paper. And she writes.

The lyrics come out jumbled, not rhyming or even semi coherent, but an outlet, a livewire or transfusion. Adora doesn’t know how to describe it other than that she’s unleashing that something that claws inside of her head. It’s a menace that has always been there, ever since she was a child; desperate and frantic and stark and fighting its way out, too many colors and shapes and sensations. The only way she can get it out is to write music; to put a pencil to paper and let herself be collateral damage, before it’s like a lock clicking shut on that livewire. The ache will be channeled into energy, into the beauty of creation, and finally, _finally_ , there’s peace. Finally, Adora can breathe.

Tonight it’s not enough.

She writes until the sun comes up and then keeps writing, past breakfast and until the afternoon. Paper litters the room and her hands are covered in charcoal. She looks at it, expecting to feel some dull satisfaction. She is met with blankness instead.

It’s not enough.

Adora feels something build up inside her, a fierce, destructive heat. She wants to scream, she wants to do something, wants to _hurt_ something and watch her knuckles bleed, but she says still and keeps silent, hands clenched until they throb. It’s like holding a star inside her chest before it finally goes silent. Something starker and brighter in its place, no longer like a star but a bomb.

It doesn't matter. She has dealt with worse.

Adora gets dressed in red basketball shorts, sneakers, and a white and gold hoodie. She runs five miles and doesn’t break a sweat, before heading back for lunch. Glimmer has saved a seat in the hotel’s restaurant and a plate of food for her, which she accepts eagerly as she slides into the seat beside her best friend. Bow is not here yet, and their other bandmates have had lunch already. Adora doesn’t really mind; she’d rather talk to Glimmer anyways.

That is, after she eats.

“Didn’t see you at breakfast,” Glimmer comments as she takes a swig of coffee. “Were you texting with Catra?”

“Writing lyrics, actually.” The coffee is too bitter. Adora takes another sip. “Did I miss anything?”

“Perfuma went on a three minute rant about the horrors of plastic water bottles.”

“So nothing then.” Perfuma does this every week. 

Adora continues to eat and Glimmer peppers her with questions--mostly about Catra--until she finally stops and offers her friend an amused look.

“If we’re talking about love lifes, how about we talk about yours?”

“My--what? Psh. You’re crazy.”

“Oh, so I only hallucinated the way you and Bow have been acting around each other,” Adora says with a smirk. Glimmer is uncharacteristically silent, staring into the surface of her coffee and tracing her finger along the mug’s rim. “Look, I won’t press if you don’t want me too, but I don’t get why you don’t just ask each other out.”

“Because--” Glimmer’s voice cracks. “I really, really like him, okay? And we’ve been friends for so long. I can’t screw that up.”

“But you’re missing the chance for something more! Just imagine--”

“Adora,” Glimmer says firmly. “Drop it.”

“Fine, but when I’m right--”

“You can say ‘I told you so’ as much as you want.” She makes a face like it pains her to say this. Adora snickers. “Anyways, seriously, I don’t want to talk about this. Tell me about Catra! Are you seeing her today?”

“Maybe,” Adora says.

She tells her the plan.

***

(“Let me get this straight,” says Glimmer.

“Impossible,” says Adora. “I’m as lesbian as they come.”

“If you do finger guns right now, I will end you. And that murder will be justified.” They both giggle. Glimmer puts on a serious face a moment later, though her mouth keeps twitching with the beginnings of a smile. “You’re going to a random skate park in order to find Catra, with no idea if she’ll be there or not, just because you’re too embarrassed to text her again to meet up?”

“Yeah. That’s the plan.”

“I hate you,” Glimmer says, and they’re laughing again, and for a moment, it’s easy to pretend everything is alright.)

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> perfuma would be a vsco girl. fight me. i also got a little more feel-y and angsty and crack-y then i wanted to with this chapter, so lmao. 
> 
> on a more serious note, thank u for ur support. i owe all of my readers my life.
> 
> (no promises with an updating schedule though. updates will either come once a week, over the course of half a month, or very frequently when i have had no sleep. the writing process is strange)
> 
> but seriously. i love you guys. thank you for reading.

**Author's Note:**

> alright, so i'm gonna aim to update this once or twice a week. whew. this is unbeta-ed and unedited so if you see a mistake, please let me know! sorry the chapter was so short, and thanks for reading. i'll see ya on the next update where more is to be revealed!
> 
> visit me on tumblr: https://hellcatspangledshalalala.tumblr.com


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